


The Wheel

by magnificent



Series: Love and Other Deadly Sins [6]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Healing, Hopeful Ending, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-20 01:53:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9470246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificent/pseuds/magnificent
Summary: Charon is faced with his past.





	1. Departure

“Mm. And you're beautiful here... and here...”

I shift slightly, a giggle rising in my throat, as Charon presses kisses down my belly. It's a sweltering day, the kind where we stay at home with all of our clothes off because it's too hot to travel. My arms are wound above my head, tangled in my hair.

My only reply is a lazily, “Mmmm...”

“And here-” Charon kisses my hipbones- “and here-” now nipping at my thigh-

His voice drops to a low, husky rasp. “And _here.”_

An electric thrill slams into my body as his tongue laps against my privates. I shriek, and without thinking, kick out at his head as hard as I can. _Noooogetthefuckoff-_ Charon's reaction time is too fast, however, and he catches my heel.

“Physical violence invalidates the contract!” he barks. He's already got me pinned down, his weight holding down my left leg while he pushes back my right foot. I'm trapped, still struggling against him, my body tingling—and then I stare at him, startled, and burst out laughing.

Charon smiles ruefully, dropping my foot, and sits up. “You... do not want me to do that?”

“I appreciate the offer,” I say, still giggling, “but no. No, it's too...”

I blush hard. What do I say to explain this? Too sensitive? Too... ugh. Just one touch and he'd had me flailing. If I had to try to tolerate a full session of that, I'd go insane. He'd have to tie me down.

“Later, perhaps,” Charon says, and kisses my waistline again.

I shiver.

“Get back up here,” I order. “You're making me nervous.”

“Yes, mistress,” he says, his eyes burning. His low, seductive growl is nothing short of sinful, filled with desire. “And what else would you have me do?”

My voice goes breathy and restless. “Something really, _really_ sexy.”

“Mm,” he growls. “Tell me.”

“Are you sure? I'm not sure if it's something you can do.” I sit up a little, leaning on my elbows, and cock an eyebrow. “I don't want you to _overperform.”_

He growls at the insinuation. “Don't underestimate me.”

I sit up the rest of the way, and Charon settles himself over me, his gaze devouring. I lean forward, caressing his face, my fingertips fluttering over his lips. His breath catches, and I gesture for him to lean down.

My lips brush against the mangled remains of his ear: “I want you... to take me to the bar.”

He groans, and flops back. “ _That's_ what you wanted to say?”

I snicker. “I told you, I didn't know if you were up to the task.”

He grumbles. “We would have to dress.”

“Mm. Or, you know, we don't _have_ to. We can go hang out at the bar in the nude... throw back a couple of cold ones with Nova and Jericho-”

Charon throws my bra at me.

“Sorry,” I laugh, fastening it. “That was mean.”

Charon is stepping into his boxers and I take a moment to admire his ass before it disappears from view. God I love his muscles. A good many of them are in especially clear view, given his ghoulification; a swathe of skin is stripped away along his lower back and the damage trails down to stop on his left buttock. The very tops of his vertebrae are visible. _L3, L4, L5,_ I count, and smile, a little sadly.

I miss Dad. Seems like half of my trains of thought end up winding around to him at some point. What does Dad think of ghouls? Has he had the chance to study them at all? Surely he'd be interested, right?

And, what on earth would he think of me having sex with one?

Best to not think about that too much right now.

Charon dresses in full armor; I settle for a blouse and a skirt. I almost never wear skirts or dresses, but it's so goddamn hot today that I'd have to grease myself to get them on. Even so, my thighs are sweaty and a bead of it slides down my cleavage. I waste a few moments in front of my mirror, trying on pre-War hats that I'd taken from the houses in Minefield; eventually I choose the most ridiculous of the set, an enormous white cartwheel hat with a silk bow.

“I didn't know today was a special occasion,” Charon says dryly.

“Oh, it is. National Fuck You Day.”

He sighs. “Are we ready yet?”

I grin and follow him outside.

If it weren't so hot, it would be a beautiful day. The sky is about as blue as I've ever seen it, and there isn't even a hint of a cloud. _Although, we could use the rain._ The acid rain is never something that us wastelanders enjoy, but at least it keeps the earth from drying up into dust. If we lost the sparse grass around Megaton, not only would our Brahmin starve, but we'd lose all of our topsoil.

Maggie Creel and Harden Simms are playing tag. I shake my head in amazement, watching them— _tag? In this heat?_ I feel like an old lady for thinking that, but _sheesh._ Kids are bizarre creatures.

Maggie is sprinting away from her friend, but the poor kiddo is at a disadvantage; she's both younger and less athletic. Harden catches up with her and taps her shoulder.

“No fair!” she cries, and turns on her heel, her shoulders slumping before she takes off again.

I wonder, as I approach them on my way to Gob's Saloon, if maybe there are other games that they might play together that are a little more evenly matched. She seems to get the short end of the stick a lot. I know that Nova will take pity on Maggie sometimes too, will invite her into the bar during slow times for a bit of chat and a glass of milk, but that isn't very often, especially since her dad is always in the Brass Lantern.

Harden, shouting a taunt over his shoulder, doesn't see me coming. I suck in a breath and step aside, but it's too late— _shit—_

Charon is in front of me before I can blink, and he seizes Harden by the front of his shirt before he can run into us. My mouth drops open—not because of his intervention, but because he's already unconsciously drawn his combat knife.

 _Thank goodness,_ though, he realizes what he's done before Harden notices, and slips it back into its sheath.

“Be careful,” Charon growls, looming over him, and the kid shrinks back. He gives my slave one terrified look, and runs away. Maggie slows as she gets closer to us, and looks up at Charon fearfully before racing after her friend.

Charon resumes walking.

“Hey! What the fuck!” I hiss, tugging at his arm.

He looks at me, his expression blank.

“You _pulled a knife on a kid!”_

“Individual of unknown intent was on course for a direct collision with my employer,” he says, stoic. “It is my duty to intercept.”

“Uhm, are you deaf? _You pulled a knife on a kid!_ You are so fucking lucky that his dad wasn't there to see that, or else we'd be fighting our way out of here.”

He pauses. “It was... instinctive.”

I sigh. “I know. Sorry. Just... Simms really hates you, you know? Especially since he knows we're doing the _horizontal tango.”_

“Mm,” Charon grunts, and glances around as if he expects the sheriff to pop up from behind the nuke.

Instead, we see Confessor Cromwell, his robes hitched up to his knees, wading barefoot in the pool of water collected around the bomb.

He lifts a hand when he sees us, grinning, and calls, “Hello, blessed pair! Scorcher of a day, isn't it?”

I nod uneasily. “Yeah, uh... lucky you've got that water there to cool off in, huh?”

“Atom's blessings are found everywhere!”

“Uh, yeah,” I say, and increase my pace. “See you around, Confessor.”

Leaning in towards Charon, I mutter, “That guy is off his fucking rocker.”

“You know how many times I've thought that myself?” he retorts.

With how hot it is, it's no surprise that the bar is packed to capacity. Gob and Nova are running ragged, but even with sweat on her brow, she's beaming and quick to provide service. Right now, she's being held up by Jericho, which is no surprise; he's trying to distract her by fumbling with his caps as his right hand reaches out, about an inch away from reaching up her skirt.

The rest of the bar is taken up by a caravan of three men and one woman, and then Walter is sitting in the corner, looking exhausted. Nathan Vargas is up at the bar, sipping on a beer.

I decide to take care of Jericho first.

“Hey!” I shout, and everyone in the bar jumps; Jericho's hand tightens reflexively and he glares at my approach.

“You tryna spook me into shooting you?” he growls.

Charon towers beside me, tense.

“Nah,” I say, “I was just so surprised. I never knew that a man could be so desperate that he'd resort to copping a feel from a retired hooker.”

Nova cackles, and Jericho's expression sours. “Nothing wrong with some good-natured appreciation of the female form.”

“ _Good-natured,”_ I repeat with air quotes.

“Don't worry, honey,” Nova says. “I'm sure Jericho is well-aware of the risks. Wouldn't be my fault if I was so surprised that I knocked the bottle onto his crotch.”

“Only if you lick it off,” Jericho replies with a smirk.

“Jericho, baby,” she says, “You couldn't pay me all the caps in the world.”

I snicker as Nova leads Charon and I up to the bar. “Cold, bitch. Ice cold.”

“Gotta teach him somehow,” she says airily. We all take our seats, Nova with her usual spot on the very end, and Charon on my other side. He's next to Nathan, who seems alarmed and leaves after about thirty more seconds.

“Hey, Gob.”

“Helena! I was wondering when I'd see you,” the bartender says, grinning. “Hey, I was listening to the radio earlier, and Three Dog said that you killed a whole troop of Talon Mercenaries! Six guys! Is that true?”

I scoff. “By myself? No way. Maybe if I'd brought along my Fat Man.” I pause, and then scowl. “How'd that bastard hear about me anyway? I've never even met the guy.”

“Hey, rumors travel fast,” Gob says. “So what happened, then?”

“I killed four of 'em, and Charon got the other two.”

“Ooh, you're slacking, big guy!” Nova teases. “Letting your girl beat you at your own game? Are you getting soft?”

Charon growls. “She killed them because _I_ was drawing fire for her.”

I pat his arm. “And a very good job you did at that, too.”

“You two are so sweet,” Nova coos.

“Yeah, yeah.” I frown. “Stupid, though, that he didn't even mention Charon. At least give the credit to the proper people.”

“He did,” Charon says.

I look at him warily. “How so?”

“A term in the contract's preface states that you take direct responsibility for my actions, including any legal repercussions-”

“Shut _up,”_ I groan, but I reach over and rub his thigh. I can't get angry at him _all_ the time for mentioning his contract, since it defines his life, but he talks about it so much that I can't help but get pissed off. Just when I think that we've found a situation where he won't even think about it, he throws something out there about it and I get angry all over again.

It comes up in the bedroom more often than I'd like to admit.

“It's good to see the bar doing so well,” I say.

Nova shrugs. “Helps that it's so hot. Because of Gob, we don't get the townspeople as much, but... the caravans have always come to us before, and it seems like they're not going to boycott us just because it's run by a ghoul.”

“You still get Jericho,” I point out.

Nova rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well... that's because he's crazy. Thinks that if he hangs around enough, I'll give in and let him sleep with me again.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jericho set down his beer and lean forward. “You can't hold out on me forever, baby doll! You know you miss me!”

“I see you every day, Jer, there's nothing to miss,” she tosses back.

“You're missing out on the lovin' of a lifetime, that's what,” he replies. “You've been too long without me. I'll blow your mind.”

“I think I can last a little longer, thanks.”

The ex-raider stares at her, exasperated. “It's been _four months.”_

Four months since Mortiarty died. Four months since I left Megaton to plant the bomb beneath Underworld. Four months since Nova quit whoring.

Which makes it seven months since I met Charon, twelve months since I left the Vault, and one month since I turned twenty.

And I'm still no closer to finding my father.

Charon stands up abruptly, and I turn in surprise. My ghoul doesn't usually react to anything unless something's really going on—he often reaches for his knife or grips the strap on his shotgun, but nothing more than that.

He's stalking to the center of the room, silent and focused. I exchange a confused glance with Nova. _What's he doing?_ If I didn't know him any better, I'd say he's heading for that table of guys from the caravan... wait, is he? Does he know one of them somehow?

Charon tilts his head, and one of the men looks up. “Hey, what are-”

_Slam!_

In an instant, Charon has one of them pinned down on the table. The man's head is pressed into his plate of food, and his arm is twisted cruelly behind his back. A shout goes up and the rest of the men have their guns trained on him.

“We've got a feral!”

“Hey!” I roar. “Don't you shoot him, goddammit! He's not feral. Charon! Stand down!”

My god, I didn't think I'd ever be in this kind of situation. _No one_ has ever mistaken Charon for being feral. He's never given anyone reason to! _What the hell is wrong with him?_

My horror mounts when Charon doesn't move. “ _Where_ did you get that rifle?” he snarls at the caravan guard. “Tell me!”

“Charon,” I snarl. “Let. Him. Go.”

His hands open stiffly, and he moves back several steps.

I take a deep breath, and look at the angry faces around me. Everyone has their guns out, even Walter and Gob. Jericho's looking down the sights of his rifle at Charon, which is entirely unsurprising; I glare at him until he stops, with a scowl.

“You with that monster?” one of them demands.

“Yeah. I'll get him out of here if there's an issue. You guys know each other? You got beef?”

“Hell if I know,” one of the guards scoffs. “Never met the guy before. What kinda bastard attacks unprovoked?”

“Are you just gonna let him get away with this?”

“What kind of town lets feral ghouls wander around? You ever think about the fact that there are kids living here too?”

“Don't worry,” Jericho mutters. “They won't be in danger for long.”

 _Shit._ The newcomers are furious, Jericho's gearing up for a fight, and Gob is fearfully looking back and forth between Nova and myself, apparently worried about our safety.

And Charon? Charon is blank-faced, stolid. The way he gets when he's being forced to follow orders and isn't too happy about it. I think if I let him go, he'd go right back to slamming that guy's face into the table.

I turn around, grab a cleaning cloth off of Gob's countertop, and hurry over to the man's side. His face is wet with grease, a few threads of tinned mystery meat clinging to his stubble.

“I am so sorry,” I murmur, and hesitantly press the cloth to his face. “Are... are you alright?”

“Yeah,” the man scowls, and snatches the cloth from my hand.

“Please, is there anything I can do to make up for my ghoul? Apologies? Caps?”

“How 'bout you put a bullet through his head?” one of the other guards snaps.

I am thinking about what on earth I can do or say to try to try to rectify the situation; I'm worried that I might have to ratchet up the charm another notch, maybe do a little bit of flirting, when Jericho ruins the whole thing.

“She won't do that,” he sneers. “She's fucking him.”

_Goddammit._

The bar goes silent, and Walter quietly leaves, apparently not wanting to see what comes of this. _Or maybe he's going to get the sheriff._ The caravan members are staring at me.

The girl guard breaks the silence. “You're kidding me. You're a ghoulfucker?”

I sigh. “Fine. Yeah. Thanks for putting it so skillfully, _Jericho.”_

“Just think it's fair for the man he wronged to know your bias,” he says smoothly. Dammit. I could slap that man.

I take a closer look at the rifle that Charon had gotten so pissed off about. It's a Ruger .22, an older gun, definitely one that's seen its fair share of fighting. Despite that, though, it's in great condition—and on a little brass plaque is engraved, _John Edwin Shaw._

I frown. “This you?”

“Huh?”

“On the gun. Is that your name?”

“Nah, it's Coleman,” he says, glaring at me. “And this was my pa's rifle—or at least it was with his stuff when I visited his weapons cache after he died.”

I glance back. “Charon? Who's John Edwin Shaw?”

His face is still perfectly blank. “That was the name of my master prior to Ahzrukhal.”

 _Ah. Now_ I understand.

“I'll pay you three hundred caps and a Chinese assault rifle for that Ruger,” I say. “And leave my ghoul alone.”

Coleman's face brightens with interest, though he hides it with a more severe expression. “And let you keep on with that abomination?”

“You can keep my choice of partners out of it, thanks,” I retort. “But if it's really that offensive I'll throw in a few pulse grenades. Is that acceptable?”

“It'll do,” he says, trying to mask his smugness. He doesn't do it very well.

“Fantastic,” I say, scooping up the rifle. “You can get your stuff from me when you leave. Ask for directions to my house.”

I pause, and look at him disdainfully. “Just say you're looking for the Lone Wanderer.”

 

* * *

 

John Shaw. I don't know much about the man, other than the few tidbits Charon has mentioned; he was a mercenary, for one, and he wore light armor. Charon tends to describe things very concretely, so he hasn't said much anything about his personality other than that he was a good man. And that they were friends.

I didn't even know his name until today, but I've wondered about him often. I would've asked more about him, but the subject always brings my ghoul so much grief and self-hatred that I try to stay away from it. He thinks that his master's death was his fault, despite the fact that he did all he could to protect him, despite the fact that Charon _can't_ do less than his best in protecting the contract-owner.

Worse yet, so soon after losing his best friend, Charon was forced to find a new master and was claimed by Ahzrukhal. Not exactly the same kind of master/servant situation that he'd had before.

I make Charon sit down on the sofa and I set the rifle onto the table before him. Find a Nuka-Cola and open it for him.

“Are you okay?”

It's a stupid question, but I have to ask.

“I am fine.”

“Don't lie to me.”

“Helena,” he says, “I am incapable of lying to you.”

“Unless you think that the truth may be harmful.” I pause. “So, are you okay or not?”

“...I am not sure.”

“That's better.” _Shit._ “Well, not, you know, _better,_ but at least it's more honest. Uhm... I did the right thing, didn't I? Buying that rifle?”

Charon's eyes are fixed upon it. “Yes. Thank you. I never believed that I would see this weapon again. When I began work for Ahzrukhal, it was many days before I was allowed to return to the spot where he died. By that point, there was nothing left.”

“Then, that guard's dad was probably a scavenger.”

“Or perhaps he was one of the mercenaries traveling with us,” Charon says. “I was not well-acquainted with all of them. There may have been a man with the name of Coleman among us.”

“Would one of them have just... taken it? Why didn't any of them stop to say goodbye to you?”

He says, quietly, “I am not a proper human, Helena, not to them. I was never truly one of them. Shaw was... a good man, and without him there, they had no ties to me.”

He reaches forward, hesitant, and touches the rifle. For a brief moment, his face is unguarded, and I see the raw sorrow displayed there.

 _It hurts._ I don't want to see him like this. I wish there was something I could do.

Charon... I owe everything to him. Not only did he save my life time after time, but he saved my sanity, too, which is more than I ever believed would be possible. And he's the most loyal and steadfast lover I could ever choose. He has been so good to me, and I feel as if there is so little I can do for him. I can't free him; I can't help him forget his terrible past. Anything I might do for his own good would only bind him up more and more in his orders.

And though he's never said it, I think he might love me. Seeing him in pain sends waves of agony through my soul.

_It hurts._

“Charon,” I say carefully, “do you happen to remember what town John Shaw lived in?”

 


	2. Redemption

_Redemption._ Town of sinners, drunks, whores, and the finest goddamn church in the Capitol Wasteland. S'one of the only places where men held onto traditional religion, without any of the twisted Atomic perversion; a place where men still preach from the holy book and haven't minced it into tiny little pieces. One of the few places where people could hear me talk about Christ and the cross and transfiguration and everyone would know what I meant.

I'm not looking forward to it.

Fortunately, though, it looks like we're pretty fucking lost right now.

“Hey, uh, Chare-baby?”

“Please do not call me that.”

“We've passed these roaches before. You know, like, an hour ago? They scared the bejesus out of me and you flipped out and went all Grognak on them?”

It hadn't been a good time. Right now we're in a sewer maintenance tunnel, desperately trying to get around the heavily-irradiated patch of wasteland just above us, but it's pitch-black down here and it's slow going, with all the feral ghouls and the radroaches and the molerats. And since it follows sewer lines, we keep going the wrong way and looping back around.

“I recall the situation,” Charon says.

“Good. So... shit. Which way did we go from that upper branch last time?” I check my Pip-Boy, scrolling up to where we'd left off. Fuck. A ton of winding around, exploring old, untouched rooms, looting bottles of Nuka-Cola and scrap metal (Charon's weighed down with about thirty pounds of it) and a single sealed Trojan condom package that some unfortunate pre-War couple never got around to using.

Not sure if there's any market for it anymore, but if I ever come upon a sex museum, I'm gonna donate it.

“Looks like we can either go straight or right from that same junction. What do you think?”

“Straight,” Charon says.

“Good idea,” I say, pleased. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Thankfully, he'd made the right call, and we climb out of the sewer exit on the outskirts of town, somewhere in the broken-down suburbs. Charon kicks the manhole cover back in place as I look at the irradiated mess behind us.

“Pretty scary place,” I say. It's dusty and bleak, like so many other places we've visited, but this place has an image of untouched preservation, in better shape than the rest of the wasteland simply because it's too dangerous for anyone to traverse. So radioactive that my Geiger counter was registering rads per second up past a dozen at some points, and that was ten feet or more _below_ the earth's surface. When I'd stepped foot in experimentally, it had quickly gone over twenty.

Charon doesn't say anything, he's simply waiting for me, and I ask, “So, you ready?”

Again, he doesn't say anything, but I think I see him tense. I don't blame him. Now that we're outside of Ashburn, we're that much closer to Redemption, which is supposed to be a few miles north.

We're close. Close to the hometown of John Edwin Shaw. Close to his family, if they're still there, close to the descendants of his friends, close to everything that Charon has been dreading and remembering and hurting over. His face is as expressionless as usual, but... I know him better than that.

It's guilt. Crushing, overwhelming guilt. None of it deserved. It was over fifty years ago, but it still cuts my ghoul like a knife. I know. I see it in the pinch between his eyebrows, and in the flickers of pain behind his icy eyes.

He stops me.

“What?” I ask. “You see it?”

He shakes his head. “Brotherhood.”

“Shit,” I mutter, seeing the figure ahead in power armor. He or she is about fifteen yards ahead of us, prodding at a dead feral ghoul with the end of his laser rifle. “Looks like he's alone, but... knowing the Brotherhood, he'll shoot the instant he sees you. Listen, stay down, and—”

The Brotherhood member's head jerks around, and he flinches at the sight of us.

“Hey,” I call. “We're friendly, both of us!”

The figure looks tense, wary, suspiciously so, and that is so out of character for the Brotherhood that it makes me wonder if he really is one of them at all. I mean, here we are, out in the middle of nowhere, would the Brotherhood really send someone out here for no reason? Those guys usually like to stick close to the Citadel.

Charon and I take a few steps forward, seeing as the Brotherhood guy isn't pointing his gun at us, and to my concern the guy only looks more and more nervous, betrayed by his body language even though his face is covered with the Brotherhood helmet.

He jerks his gun up once we're within twenty feet, although he keeps it pointed away from us.

“You,” he says, and gestures warningly. “You stay away from me. You got what you needed. I'm _done_ with you, alright? Stay away from me!”

 _Well, shit._ This guy's legitimately freaking out right now, and that is a hell of a dangerous thing when he's covered in five hundred pounds of power armor and has a fucking laser rifle and god knows how many plasma grenades.

I raise my hands placatingly.“Woah, man, come on, it's okay.”

His grip on the gun falters a little bit, relaxing the slightest bit, and I consider it safe enough to continue, “I think you have us confused for someone—”

 _“Ad victoriam,”_ Charon interrupts, and his teeth are bared in a feral grin.

“Shit, _shit,”_ the guy whimpers, and nearly falls over trying to back up. “Look, what the hell do you _want_ from me? I got sent out here because of what you did, you... you shuffler! You want my caps? My weapons? Take them, I don't even care anymore! Just... just get out of here!”

I close my mouth, since it's been hanging open the instant the guy started backpedaling. “Woah, woah, calm down, we're not gonna hurt you.”

I glance at Charon. _Right?_ He only blinks, the picture of innocence, and shrugs.

I continue, “We just wanna get to Redemption. Think you can point us the way?”

“R-Redemption?” the guy asks. He pauses, still looking between Charon and I, and then says, “Yeah, sure, I've been stationed out here to keep the place under control. Just follow this street straight on through, and you'll reach it in about a mile. Are we done here?”

I pause, gawking at him. He _really_ wants to get out of here. Badly. “Uhm. Yeah. We're done.”

The Brotherhood Knight takes off in the opposite direction.

I stare at Charon. “What the hell did you _do_ to him?”

He says (and I'm alarmed to see that he's fighting a smile), “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Come on,” I groan. “When the hell did you get the chance to terrorize the Brotherhood? Was... was that when I was off playing raider? It _was,_ wasn't it?”

Jesus fuck, he's biting the inside of his mouth now. “Knight Felix and I may have shared a few words, yes.”

“Holy shit, you're a lunatic. You're gonna have to tell me some of these stories later on.” I roll my eyes. “What else don't I know about you? Next thing I know you'll be telling me that you're friends with a super mutant or something.”

He shakes his head, finally allowing some of the smile to slip through. “Nothing like that. Although... I do know someone within the Brotherhood whom I would not be tempted to shoot on sight.”

“Well, wonders will never cease,” I mutter, and then wink at him. “A ghoul with friends in the Brotherhood. How does that work? Does he only call you an abomination... in private?”

“That is a _repulsive_ insinuation.”

“I only ask as a friend,” I say, grinning now that I've gotten a rise out of him. “I don't mind if you have some... _male companions._ Everyone gets experimental.”

He glances down at me, his clear blue eyes as startling as ever against the crimson scars and burns across his face, and I bump him with my shoulder. His hand ghosts over my lower back. “Perhaps I will be experimental with you, if that is what it takes to keep you silent.”

“Grooooss,” I whine.

He smirks. “You will not be saying so when it happens.”

I blush, and increase my pace a little so that he doesn't see my face. Dammit, I don't know what to say to him when he gets like this. Thank god he doesn't get into these weird moods when anyone else is around.

We spot Redemption way before we enter it. Once we get around the husks of buildings and into clear grasslands, the steeple of Saint John's Post-Apocalyptic Church rises up before us, an unyielding monolith in the face of the destruction around us. I feel a chill as I stare up at the Cross at its peak.

I don't want to be walking in the shadow of my past. Don't wanna be thinking about prayers that dissolved into tears, or about worship and love turning to rage and scorn.

I was so devoted. I was so _good._ And to be cast out like that? To be thrown out into hell with my best friend getting massacred by the Overseer's fucktard goonies, to... to...

To find out that there isn't a God after all.

And if there is... that He isn't one that I'd want to serve anyway. What kind of god would let something so terrible happen to the world? What kind of god would allow the things that happened to Charon, to Nova, to Gob?

But it hurts. It hurts anyway, and some distant part of me surges within, and I suddenly want to push onwards and run into the church and kneel down at the altar. To speak with their pastor or priest or whomever they have on duty and let it all out. Let my walls come crashing down. To find something to believe in again. To find _hope._

“There is a good possibility that Shaw's family will no longer be here,” Charon says, and the moment passes.

“Yeah,” I say. “I know. If they're not here, we'll just move on and keep looking. It's okay. We've come this far.”

There's a nine-foot brick wall surrounding Redemption, and a man with a shotgun standing just outside the gates, chewing idly on a toothpick. He lifts his eyebrows at us as we approach, taking in our weathered gear and tired expressions, and says, “Hey there, folks. Welcome to the city of God.” And then smirks.

“Real funny,” I mutter. “We already know the town's reputation. There a fare or a tax or something to get in?”

“Nah,” the guard says. “I reckon you'll spend enough caps anyways, if Redemption really was your choice of destination. The church is on your right, the brothel's on your left, and the bar's at the other end of town. Everything else is in between.”

He bangs on the gate twice with the butt of his shotgun, and the thick steel bars lift with a screech. “Welcome to Redemption.”

 

* * *

 

I'm not sure what the town was thinking when they elected to build a brothel directly across from the Wasteland's most conservative church, but it makes for an interesting spectacle. Redemption is a busy place, nearly the size of a full-out post-apocalyptic city, with a population of over one hundred and fifty, and so the place is _bustling._ That means that there's an entire crowd of citizens picketing across from the brothel, and a mass of prostitutes on the other side of the street jeering at them.

“Your _business_ is ruining our city!” a lady screams.

“At least our business _makes_ it a city!” one of the prostitutes fires back. A man passing through the center of the street winces, pulls his fedora down lower, and hurries onward. It appears that no one wants to get caught up in the middle of this.

“It is not too late to turn from your ways,” a man in robes calls. “We would be glad to have you in our services.”

“It's no use, Father,” one of the non-protesting bystanders shouts back. “They ain't gonna listen to ya. Just let 'em do their thing.”

“Yeah!” one of the whores says, giggling. “Let us do our _thing.”_

One of the prostitutes catches sight of us, and then they all erupt at once. One woman drops her decolletage so far that I can see the tops of her nipples, rosy pink and firm. Both Charon and I avert our eyes, exchanging a glance of mild horror.

“Hey, baby, come over _here!”_

“Wanna check out these goods?”

“My... _you're_ a tall drink o' water, aren't you, handsome?”

And from the other side:

“Don't listen to those whores! Their lives are filled with filth and sin!”

“God will reward the righteous!”

“Please attend our Bible study! I made mutfruit fruitcake!”

I look at the last of the speakers with a strained smile. A woman in a salmon-colored dress. Given her flawless appearance and oddly cheerful voice, she reminds me, painfully, of Brailee Ewers. “Thanks,” I call back, “but we're not gonna be here for long. The two of us are looking for someone.”

Giving the prostitutes a last glance (I have nothing against them, obviously, but I honestly think that the other crowd might be a little more helpful) I head on over to the church-goers, who are ridiculously pleased to have convinced me to join them. I get numerous “hey there, stranger!”s, as well as several pats on the back, which Charon automatically slaps away. He gets quite a few scowls for that, and eventually we make our way up to the priest.

“I'm sorry for that... introduction, to Redemption,” the priest says. He's a severe man, with black hair and gray eyes that remind me, uncomfortably, of my dad's. “I'm Father Lockwood. I serve this town, and I do my best to lead it. Spiritually, anyway. Kevin Norris is the mayor.”

He coughs. “Now, what can I do for you? I'm trained in baptism, and of course I am eager to share the Good News to anyone who has not heard of Christ-”

“It's fine,” I say. “I used to be a minister myself.”

Father Lockwood's eyebrows shoot up, and he asks, “Ah! What denomination? Protestant? Catholic? Mormon? Atomic?”

“Christian,” I say firmly. “We were a non-denominational church.”

A three-person church, sure, seeing as the only people really interested in it in the Vault were myself and the Palmers, but hell, what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

“Were,” Lockwood repeats, and goes quiet. He's tactful enough to not say anything else, leaving it open for me to answer or ignore the comment.

“I don't like to talk about it,” I say roughly, and then gesture to my boyfriend. “We're, uh, looking for someone. Well, the family of someone, anyway. John Edwin Shaw. He lived here. Fifty or so years ago.”

“Hm,” the minister says, frowning. “John Edwin Shaw... Oh! Yes, I believe I know who you're speaking about.”

“We're looking for his son,” I say. “Charon, you don't happen to know his name, do you?”

“I do not recall it,” Charon admits, the only thing that he has said since our arrival. “Shaw did not often speak of his family.”

Lockwood's eyes widen. “Oh! Are _you_ the ghoul he left with?”

Charon nods, shortly.

“Ah,” Lockwood breathes, as if that explains everything. But he doesn't look angry or upset or anything, just a little thoughtful. “I'm sorry to tell you this, then, but... his kid, Eddie Shaw, he's dead. Been dead for the past five years. Heart attack. He passed out while working in the fields and was stone cold by evening.”

Charon is frozen. I take his hand, and he manages to swallow. _Shit._ “I... I see.”

“Shaw's wife, though, she's still around. Goin' on seventy-five years now, but she's still sharp as a tack. Still works her son's fields like nobody's business. If you wanna meet up with her, which I'm assuming you do, you'll wanna head to the east side of town. Right up at the wall is their farm.”

 

* * *

 

Charon stiffens with each step we take towards the little farm, and I lace my fingers through his. He does not react to me at all, just tightens his jaw; he's wound up tighter than a watch.

“It's okay,” I say softly. “Have you met her before?”

A single nod.

“Will she remember you?”

A pause. “I am uncertain.”

“Well, it has been fifty years, after all.”

He grunts, and freezes still a few feet behind the doorstep, as if his knees have locked up on him—cogs snarled together and stuck, a seized-up machine. I tug at his hand, but he remains in place, too heavy for me to budge.

I knock at the door, and then take a step back to line up with Charon, who looks like he's ready to run. Charon, who shows no fear; Charon, who has never run from anything in his life.

“I'm coming,” a voice calls, and then the door jerks open.

Charon flinches.

Mrs. Shaw is... old, I suppose; that's my first impression of her. The Wasteland is an unforgiving place, and people rarely make it past their forties, let alone as old as Jericho, and Mrs. Shaw, apparently, is ten years older than _he_ is. She's got wispy white hair in curls, a long beige dress with mud smeared across it. Peeling shoes with cracks and bubbles that remind me of Charon's skin, ruined with age. Blue eyes and a hell of a lot of wrinkles.

A smile like Mrs. Palmer's.

“Hi,” I say.

“Well, hello, dearie! It's not often that I get strangers showing up on my doorstep. Can I help you with something?”

Charon grates, “Are you the wife of John Shaw?”

The corners of her eyes wrinkle, a little sadly, as she smiles. “Yes. He was my husband.”

“And a good man,” Charon says, and then pauses. “I was his bodyguard.”

I bite my lip, waiting for her reaction—had it been me, I probably would have flown into a fury, or, more likely, descended into a foul storm of derision and sarcasm. Something like: _“Well, you didn't do a very good job, did you?”_ or _“Oh wonderful! So you've finally brought his body back to me. We can bury him on the family farm. It's what he'd always wanted. I'm glad I only had to wait fifty years.”_

Her eyes widen, and she breathes, “Gabe.”

I start at that. “Gabe?”

“I go by Charon now,” he says, his voice oddly stilted. He doesn't look at me. “My previous master renamed me, and my mistress did not change my name.”

He does not say anything, and his eyes only flicker as he watches her step down from the stoop. I'm expecting her to slap him, and he is tensing as if holding himself back from defending himself, especially with the purpose she's approaching him with.

She hugs him.

“I'm so glad you're alright,” she whispers, and then smiles, a little uncertainly, as she repeats his new name. _“Charon._ John truly loved you. He always felt so terrible about the contract. He was hoping—”

She breaks off to take a breath, shaking her head, and steps back from him. Charon looks stunned. “He was hoping that after bringing in some more money, that we could buy more land and expand the farm. To work from home, and run patrols with you around Redemption to keep us safe. He wanted to retire. He wanted to save _you.”_

I am beginning to see why Charon held John Shaw in such high estimation, because he was clearly a better person than I am. I arrogantly call myself Charon's 'favorite master', but I suddenly wonder if that's the case.

He bows his head. “I am sorry.”

She's quiet for a little, and wipes her hands on her dress. A nervous habit. “The other men told me about what happened to him. That the two of you charged out into the middle of DC to clear the area. That you were ambushed. By centaurs.”

His jaw tightens. “Yes.”

“Then... they really did eat him alive.”

Charon says, just as quietly, “No. His death was merciful. He... asked me to ensure him a clean death, in his last moments. I provided.”

Her eyes are watering, and she smiles again, wiping her cheeks with the heel of her hand. “Thank you.”

He starts. “That is not-”

“It might sound silly, I know,” Mrs. Shaw says, letting out a small, sad chuckle, “but no one else really saw how John died. All I knew was that it was centaurs and super mutants, and that someone else had taken charge of you. That you'd been re-enslaved, and that you were alone, and that John... that John had died in agony.”

“He did,” Charon whispers. “It was my fault.”

“No,” Mrs. Shaw says. “Gabe... er, Charon, you were his closest friend. You never would have wanted him to come to harm. I know that. I _know_ that. And no matter how painful his death may have been, you still made it as quick for him as you could, and you... you were with him. And that is more than I could have asked for.”

Charon is quiet, and then his teeth are gritted and he's shaking his head and clenching his hands and I can _tell_ he's frustrated and angry, and I reach out to touch his arm to calm him, but all he says is, “You should hate me.”

“No,” Mrs. Shaw says, and she takes his hands. “I shouldn't. You've had enough hate in your lifetime.”

I smile, my heart twisting. “Thank you,” I tell her, and I mean for a lot more than just her forgiveness.

She looks at me, taking a breath, as if cleansing herself of her grief. “Well. You're a fresh-faced young thing, aren't you? I suppose you're his new mistress, then?”

“Yeah.”

“I'd warn you to take good care of him, heavens knows the man needs it, but if you've brought him here to see me, then I don't think I need to remind you. Thank _you_ for what you've done. For being kind to him.”

“Don't worry,” I say. “We look out for each other.”

She pauses. “Will you stay for dinner, perhaps? Charon, you haven't stayed over in forever. My, when _was_ the last time you were here? Fifty... fifty-two years, maybe? I've got yao guai stew in the pot right now. That was your favorite, wasn't it?”

I look at Charon, beginning to smile, but his expression is tormented. I'm... confused, I'd thought that he'd be happy that Mrs. Shaw wants us with them so much, that she's so gracious and kind, but...

“No thanks,” I say, reluctantly, and the ease of tension on Charon's face tells me that I made the right decision. “We actually have to be heading back now. But... uh, we'll stop by some other time. It only takes a few days to get here, we're from just outside of DC.”

“Are you sure? Well, alright. I'm glad you stopped in,” she says, and as we turn to leave, Charon's armored thigh smacks into a kid, sending him sprawling.

“Sorry,” I apologize to the kid, helping him up, since Charon isn't making a single move to help or even apologize. “He's big, he gets in the way. You alright?”

“Peter,” Mrs. Shaw reprimands. “That's exactly why you don't try to run past strangers. Excuse yourself next time.”

The kid nods, looking abashed. He's cute. Maggie's age, probably, or as old as Harden. I'm glad to see a kid here. So many people are sterile because of the radiation, it makes me happy to see children. They're a gift. I ain't the kind of girl to have one myself, but I like kids. I'm probably infertile anyway, just cause of all the trekking around that I've done. But I'm always glad to see them.

He's especially cute, as far as kids go. Dark brown hair and tanned skin, blue eyes and the shyness of any kid his age. Little bit of a curlicue on the top of his head, where his hair is a little bit longer.

Charon is still quiet, looking at the kid. The unspoken question hangs heavy in the air.

Mrs. Shaw says, “This is Peter, Eddie's son. He's my grandchild.”

Charon exhales sharply through his nose and Peter squirms, looking nervous but too polite to duck into the house; his grandma is blocking the way and he'd have to push by her to enter.

Charon takes a knee, putting him at eye level with the kid. His face is pained, solemn. He grinds out, “I knew your grandfather.”

“You did?” The kid looks nervously to his grandma, but she only smiles encouragingly. “You don't look that old.”

I giggle at that statement—Charon, one of the oldest men in the world, scarred and mangled beyond belief, and this kid thinks he looks _young?_

Charon tilts his head, hesitating.

Peter looks down at his feet, clearly uncomfortable at my ghoul's intense scrutiny. Charon looks as if he's memorizing the kid's every last feature. Maybe trying to find pieces of John peeking through, fragments of his previous master encapsulated in this child.  
“What was he like?” Peter finally asks.

“Brave,” Charon says, “and fair, and kind.”

“So you went on jobs with him? Grandma said that you saved her fifty-four years ago, when the super mutant overlord sent the behemoth to destroy Redemption. Did you really fight off ten mutants at once?”

“Eight,” Charon grunts.

“With nothing but a knife,” Mrs. Shaw adds, smiling. “Charon was trying to lead me to safety during the attack when the super mutants ambushed us. I was pregnant with your daddy, and he saved my life while your grandpa killed the behemoth. A real pair of heroes. Oh, I wish you could'a seen the two of them. They were the scariest men to walk the wastes.”

“ _Eight_ mutants?” I repeat. “With a _knife?”_

I'm astounded, but Charon only shrugs. Pulls out his combat knife—

“No _way!_ It was with _that_ knife? How freaking old is that thing?”

“I've had it for... mm... eighty or so years.”

“Jesus f—I mean, dang. That's a long time.”

“It has served me well,” Charon says, then stands and looks at Mrs. Shaw. “Sarah. Thank you for hearing me out. We will take our leave now.”

“Oh...” Mrs. Shaw says, looking surprised. “So soon? Can I give you anything to take on the road?”

“No,” Charon says, “we should be leaving. But... first.”

He takes off his pack and pulls out a leather bag. I raise my eyebrows, knowing what's inside but intrigued by what he's doing. I hadn't known he'd brought it along.

He says roughly, “You know how to fire a gun, boy?”

Peter nods, looking a little offended. “I'm twelve,” he says, as if that explains everything.

Charon glances at Mrs. Shaw, and when she gives a small smile and a nod, Charon pulls the bag open and removes the pieces of a rifle.

While his hands work, he speaks. “This was your grandfather's weapon of choice. It served him well over the years. It has been well-maintained. I have taken the liberty of cleaning it.”

He pauses, frowning, the weapon put-together but unloaded, and he turns it over, once, twice. Rubs his thumb over the plaque where the name of his former master is engraved into the gleaming brass. “I... am sorry that I could not bring it to you sooner. I had hoped to give this to your father. You may have it in his stead.”

“Thanks,” Peter says, taking it from Charon with no small amount of interest. I'm pleased to see that he knows how to handle a weapon; he's careful not to point the muzzle in anyone's direction, and turns towards the wall separating Redemption from the wastes before he looks down its sights.

“It will likely have more of a kick than you expect,” Charon warns. “Sarah. I expect there is someone who will teach him to use it well?”

“You would be the best teacher, honestly,” she says, “but if you're in a rush...”

“We'll be back sometime,” I promise. “And if Charon isn't comfortable teaching, I can help out. I prefer my M1 Garand myself, but I could handle another rifle well enough to teach him.”

Mrs. Shaw's smile could outshine the sun. Her eyes gleam, a little too brightly, and she sniffs. “I'd like that very much. Charon, you're welcome here any time you like. Whatever the circumstances. Same goes for you, uhm...”

“Helena.” I outstretch my hand and Mrs. Shaw takes it. Her hands are cold and leathery and knobby with rheumatism.

“You're welcome back at any time too.” Her eyes twinkle. “Please keep taking care of him.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I say, and smile at Charon, who looks far from comfortable. He's shifting his weight from foot to foot, as if he's expecting a fight to break out at any moment. “Uh... guess we should be heading out.”

“Stay safe!” Mrs. Shaw calls cheerfully.

“Thank you. You as well.”

Charon's already walking away.

 

* * *

 

He's a good ten feet ahead of me when we leave Redemption, and he doesn't offer it a single backwards glance. His pace only increases when I reach his side. His eyes flick down to mine, and then slide away.

“Charon!” I hiss. “What the hell? Who put a fire under _your_ ass? You forget to turn off the stove before we left or something?”

He says noncommittally, “Wadsworth would have turned it off by now.”

“Fuck you. Seriously, what's wrong with you?” I soften my voice. “I'm not trying to be mean. Honest. But what's _wrong?”_

He shakes his head, and for some time I don't think he's going to give me a straight answer.

Finally: “I... am unused to seeing people change.”

I look at him, askance. “You're over two hundred years old.”

“And I have been passed from hand to hand without staying with a single person for long,” Charon says. “Out of all of my employers, Ahzrukhal was both the first ghoul to command me, and had the privilege of keeping me for the longest. Fifty years. No one else has lasted that long. But... there was a sense of timelessness, of stagnancy. All of us in the Underworld were ghouls. No one aged, and since my employment to Ahzrukhal, no one died. I knew that time was passing without ever seeing its effects.”

“Until you came out of the museum and went back to that town,” I say slowly, “and saw Mrs. Shaw.”

He bows his head. “When I had last spoken with her, she was young. Barely older than yourself. That is how I remember her.”

“Ah,” I say, and thinking of nothing else, I continue, “That must be... sad.”

“Yes,” he admits. “It is.”

“Nothing slaps you in the face like outliving the children of your friends,” I mutter. “What a way to experience immortality.”

He doesn't speak.

I stick a finger through his belt loop. “Don't worry, Chare, I'll try to hold on for you long enough that you see me get old.”

His face twitches, and not in a happy or amused way. More like a wince. I guess... I guess he doesn't want to think about that either. Doesn't want to think of me dying _or_ getting old. Well. The only way to freeze me in time would be if I could get ghoulified, and I doubt that's going to happen. Especially not for me to turn and not go feral. What are the chances of going feral immediately after turning again? Seventy percent? Eighty percent?

That would be if the rads didn't just kill me.

He says, his words oddly empty, "And she forgave me."

"Mm. It was kind of her."

"She should not have done that."

"...Why?"

"I do not deserve to be forgiven," he says, quietly.

"Charon..." I sigh, and lean on him. He won't let it go, will he? Even though it's been so long?

I wonder if that's the real reason he wanted to leave so badly. That he can't stand to be in the presence of someone he has wronged, someone who holds nothing but love and forgiveness in her heart. That he's been so filled with self-hatred and guilt that he can't stomach the kindness.

I wonder what will happen if that person ever becomes _me._

"And, so, _will_ you ever want to go back?”

“Yes,” he says, steadily.

“You just can't stay for long. Yet.”

“Mm.”

“Alright, fair enough.”

 

* * *

 

That evening, we take refuge from the night inside a bar. Charon points out that I only want to stay in there so that I can look for booze all evening, and I retort that it's just because of the sturdy and mostly-intact structure that I want to rest there. It's actually sort of both, but I don't tell him that.

We don't find any booze, though. I check behind the bar, scowl at the empty shelves and busted safe, the broken glass littering the floor. Raiders have used this place before, or at least visited a few times; everything breakable is wrecked, and there's a pile of dirty sheets on the floor. I kick them aside and lay down our packs, sullen.

Charon has been watching me, but I see something grab his attention out of the corner of my eye, as I spread our bedrolls; he walks from my side to the far end of the bar, and stops in front of a dusty, dinged-up jukebox. Of all things to survive, the jukebox looks like it's still active, a little light on its display still casting a warm light.

He is quiet, transfixed, and I watch his face, bathed in the yellow light of the LED display. In the semi-darkness, he looks especially monstrous, shadows thrown sharply over his face, his eyes hollows, his skin all the more nightmarish and wretched. His eyebrows pull down, frowning, his visage warping in the thin light.

“I don't believe it,” he mutters at last.

“Mm?” I'm caught off-guard, too intent on watching him.

He doesn't say anything, just takes a long, deep breath, as if gearing himself up for a particularly difficult shot, and presses a button.

Music begins to play.

_“Hey Jude... don't make it bad... Take a sad song and make it better...”_

Charon's eyes are closed, his hands gripping either side of the jukebox, as if he'll fall over if he lets it go.

 _“Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better...”_ the jukebox croons, and I stop by his side, curious.

“What is this? I've never heard this song before.”

He's _smiling._ He's actually smiling, staring down as we listen to the lyrics. “The Beatles. Before the war, there was a resurgence of popularity for older music. Bands like the Ink Spots were suddenly playing on the radio again, but the Beatles didn't make the cut, they were too new. When the bombs fell, there was a lot of history and culture that died along with the living.”

He pauses, and then rasps, “I never thought I'd hear this song again.”

“It's nice,” I say. “I like it.”

He says, “I remember... very little of the world before the war. To the extent that I did not know a single song until it came to me in a dream, a few days before I became a ghoul. I have remembered bits and pieces since then. Echoes. I must have liked them very much. Still do.”

I put my arm around his waist, and we listen until the ending.

He sighs. Reaches out and points to another number. Billy Joel? I've never heard of him either. “I remember this one, too.”

He taps in the selection, and the jukebox crackles to life again.

_“If you said goodbye to me tonight... there would still be music left to write... What else could I do? I'm so inspired by you... that hasn't happened for the longest time.”_

He pulls me away from the jukebox and puts his arms around me. I think, in amazement, that he's about to kiss me— _Charon's actually taking initiative?!—_ when he takes a step back, pulling me with him.

He's _dancing._

I grip his collar, desperately trying to stay in time with him as I try to wrap my mind around what he's doing.

_“I haven't been there for the longest time.”_

“Charon,” I say unsteadily, “what the hell are we doing?”

“Dancing,” he says wryly. “Have you never tried it before?”

“I have,” I say, “My dad taught me. I'm not very good at it though. But... _dancing._ Me and you. _Dancing?”_

“I do believe that's what we're doing, yes,” Charon agrees.

I stare at him, flabbergasted. He takes another step to the left, up, to the right, back. We move slowly in our little box, careful to stay in tempo. He catches me off-guard when he spins me, and I nearly fall over.

His arms are around me, his breath on my neck. “Careful.”

I shiver, my hands digging into his chest, trying not to look into his eyes. He's still smiling at me, and it's throwing me off. “So, uh... why now? I had no idea that you knew _how_ to dance, let alone that you _enjoy_ it.”

“Maybe it just takes the right song.”

Billy Joel's voice fades out, and I sigh and look at the jukebox, still resting one hand on Charon's chest.

Well _damn._

“You think we can carry this thing with us?” I ask with a smirk.

His hand tangles in my hair. “I would like that.”

“First things first,” I say, and click through the settings on my Pip-Boy. There it is. _Record._ “Now, quiet.”

We stay up far later than we should, listening to every single song on the jukebox. We're settled down together, our backs against the wall, having moved our things across the room so that we can be closer to the music. I hear two dozen different songs that have not been listened to for decades. Charon keeps his eyes closed, relaxed, palms resting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him.

Midway through, I take his hand in mine. I close my eyes, and fall asleep by his side.

We finish the last song just before the dawn arrives.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading! I apologize for the late update, but this chapter ended up going a little long.  
> Speaking of... I am going on a hiatus. I'm going to keep updating my other works for now, but Love and Other Deadly Sins will come to a TEMPORARY standstill while I finish the next section. It's Charon POV and Brotherhood/Atomic Church-oriented, so it's something that will require a lot of thought and research and planning, and I intend to deliver a quality work for you guys. I've been a little disappointed in myself with my work recently; I've been feeling like I've rushed things and I really want to do something great. Angsty and amusing and good. Because of that, I won't put out a chapter until it's all done and polished. I hope you can forgive me!
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr.  
> https://magnificentkinkmeme.tumblr.com/


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